Pressing On
by burninganchors
Summary: "You see, you made a real hash of things for the people upstairs. You're not supposed to die today, but you've obviously gone out and seen to that. So, yeah, you did die, but now you're getting the opportunity to fix that."
1. Chapter 1

_First Sherlock fic! Posted originally as a fill for this prompt over at the kink meme:_

_"John commits suicide. And in a sort of 'It's a Wonderful Life' twist, or as punishment, or unfinished business or whatever...he has to stick around as a ghost. And watch Sherlock fall apart. Watch him grieve, alone, watch him push away all future potential friends. Unable to help or comfort or touch, unable to remind him he's brilliant when the world calls him a freak, to stop his stupider impulses or stop him from self destructing. Unable to protect."_

_Hope you enjoy, and comments/criticism are always appreciated._

_-E_

* * *

><p>People always said you saw a bright white light before you died. John closes his eyes when he jumps and doesn't see much of anything. When he cracks his eyes open, though; that's when the light hits him square in the face.<p>

"Bugger," he groans over the sound of his pulse in his ears. It hurts to speak, so he doesn't do it again. In fact, everything hurts. His head is throbbing, his back aches, even his toes seem to be going numb. He's cold and wet and hurting.

This is wrong. Everything was supposed to _stop_ hurting.

His eyes clench shut once more, this time against the rising whirlwind of images - staring into the glare of the phone in his hand, the operator's muffled condolences on the passing of his sister. Trembling fingers reaching for the pink slip from under Sarah's apologetic gaze. The usual clutter of the flat accentuated by the growing stacks of glassy beer bottles in the corner. The argument, and then the stark, red, hand-shaped mark blooming on Sherlock's shocked face… his wide eyes…

Then running. Snow. Bright lights swirling along in the current of the Thames. Hesitation, a leap, and then John swirling along in the current in the of the Thames.

The rush of water still echoes in his head, but slowly, everything drains down to a single voice.

"John. John. _John_!"

His eyes flutter open again. He focuses on the familiar face above him. "Harry?" he croaks.

His sister is indeed sitting next to his bed on a white chair that definitely belongs to the absence of color scheme in the foreign room. His _dead_ sister. Dead of alcohol poisoning sister. She, however, is full of color and life. She doesn't look like she did in the coffin - there's color in her cheeks, her strawberry blonde hair is freshly curled, and her floral trench coat is pressed and crisp. She looks… alive.

She smirks. "You look bloody awful," she says by way of greeting.

"Well, feel that way, too," he huffs, a smile growing on his face before reality sinks in and pushes it off. He scrambles to sit up, immediately regretting it when his temples twinge reproachfully. She arches an eyebrow at him, and he swallows, brain still murky and very, very confused. "You're… dead."

"Mhmm. Seems you tried to join the club, too," his sister tuts. "Big brother Johnny, running from your problems and then taking the easy way out? Not like you."

His head snaps toward her. "Because that's no different than drowning them in alcohol," he replies coolly. They glare at one another for a few moments before he finally sighs and looks away. "What do you mean by 'tried', anyway?"

She lifts a hand and gestures at their wide, colorless surroundings. "Look about you, brother mine. This isn't hell, and it's definitely not heaven."

"So, limbo?"

"Sort of." The smirk returns to her face, and she uncrosses her arms and leans towards him. "You see, you made a real hash of things for the people upstairs. You're not supposed to die today, but you've gone out and seen to that. So, yeah, you did die, but now you're getting the opportunity to fix that."

He flops back down on the crisp white sheets, dampened slightly by his wet clothes, and expels his breath in a harsh sigh. "Can't even die properly," he mumbles, hands reaching up to rub his eyes.

Harry frowns next to him. "What kind of attitude is that, hm?"

"Why would I want to go back, Harriet?" John growls. By now his pain has abated somewhat, but the anger and confusion that has been building ever since he woke in this disorienting place is becoming too much to handle. He throws off the blankets and stands, glaring down at his sister, shaking arms crossed tightly across his chest. "I jumped for a reason. Everything was going to shit; first you, then the job, and then -" He breaks off, scrunches up his face. "It's better for everyone this way."

Regarding him with the first serious facial expression he's seen from her all day, Harry stands, too. A few moments pass, and then the hand by her side slowly reaches out to him.

"That might be true. And if by the end of what I'm about to show you it still is, then you'll be allowed to go on. No holds barred, no questions asked. Up to the pearly gates with you."

"I got into heaven?"

"Please, John, you're a war hero. And don't interrupt me!"

"Right, sorry."

Her face softens. "But, John, I think you're going to find out how much it really isn't the better option for anyone."

John could be dreaming, or hallucinating, or he could be dead, but she is the one thing that seems real. She looks exactly like she did before, and more than that, when he clasps her hand, it is warm - unlike everything else in this unfamiliar, cold, white place. They had more than their fair share of differences, but despite this, despite everything, he trusts her.

"This is mental," he mutters, and squeezes her hand lightly. "Alright, you can show me what it is you're supposed to show me or do whatever you have to do. Let's just get this over with."

She squeezes back, and with a sudden, blinding flare, they are clothed in black and standing in a field of daisies.


	2. Chapter 2

It's late winter, or early spring. You could never quite tell in London. A thin layer of snow is seeping slowly into the ground, but the flowers persevere, lending a warmer tinge to the grey morning. Disoriented from the unexpected jump, John's only thought as he regains his balance is that it's a nice place, empty of the noises of the city but with its spires still glistening in the distance. Even under clouded skies, with a chilly wind ripping through his clothes, it's nice.

Those are his thoughts, at least, until he sees the casket.

Something sinks in his stomach, and he rounds on Harry.

"You are not bringing me to my own funeral!" he hisses through clenched teeth.

"And why not?" she retorts, already pulling him down the path.

He stumbles behind her, dragging his feet. "Because, that's just… well, it's odd!"

She sends a puzzled look in his direction. "Because everything else that has happened to you recently is normal."

It shuts him up long enough for her to lead them into the tiny throng of people. No one seems to notice their presence, despite the fact that when he looks to his left he is practically brushing arms with Sally Donovan.

"I did not expect so many people," he admits. Truly, the space under the shade of a bow-backed oak tree is filled with somber faces. His mum and dad, people from his school days, army mates, the lot of Scotland Yard. Mike, Sarah, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Anderson, even, he's surprised to see, Mycroft. But he has to work to fight the bitter surge of disappointment he feels when he notices the absence of a shock of dark hair and dramatic coat among the crowd.

"Looking for someone?" Harry murmurs as the minister drones on. John shoots her a glance, but before he can reply, someone else does.

"Why isn't he here?" Sally whispers anxiously. John starts, fearing for a moment that he isn't as invisible as he thought he was, but it soon becomes clear that she was speaking with Lestrade next to her. The inspector shrugs minutely, but his eyes are also almost desperately searching the faces grouped around the long, black box.

Swallowing, Donovan shakes her head. "There's no case. It's a Sunday. He has no reason not to be here. I knew it, that wanker - no, I can't even believe this. After all that poor man did for him, after everything-"

"Hey," Lestrade murmurs, for people are starting to stare. "Maybe he can't."

"I told him to stay away, I did."

"Donovan, it isn't Sherlock's-"

"I know," she cuts him off, and inhales shakily. Her hand dashes below her eye in a furtive gesture. "I just… I thought it meant something, you know? Thought they meant something. And I liked the bloke. I never imagined _this_."

Lestrade's eyelids squeeze tightly together, and to John's eyes, in that moments he looks very, very old. "No one did. None of us. God. Some detectives we are."

It would be funny anywhere else. Sally doesn't reply for a long time, and they stand, half-listening to the pastor talk about good deeds and golden shores and the valley of the shadow of death. At last, she whispers, "For the first time I'm worried about him. Sher-. The psychopath."

Her confession hangs in the air over their heads, heavy and grey. "Me too," Lestrade sighs eventually. His stoic façade, crumbling at the edges, finally breaks, and he stretches a comforting arm around her. "I'm terrified for him."

They stand quietly, listening to the remainder of the sermon and leaning into the comfort in each other.

John stands apart from them, and John lies in the casket.

A heavy feeling is growing in his chest, worse than anything the past few years had thrown at him. It's a horrible, sick sensation - being talked about as if you're not there. What's worse, he learns, is being talked about in the context of the things you've left behind.

A prayer is spoken, and the sleek edges of the wooden case disappear into a hole in the icy ground. His mum steps forward, cradled by his father. Both of their faces are contorted in expressions John thinks he will never forget. They throw dirt into the hole, his mum chases it with a blown kiss from her watery lips. He saw this at Harry's funeral before. He decides he never wants to see it again.

"Harry," he chokes out, and only now realizes that his grip has become vice-like on her arm. She doesn't want to see any of this either, though - he can see it in her stricken eyes. She needs only to hear his strangled cry for help, for _get me out of here_, for I _can't stand this anymore, can't you see my heart is ripping itself apart?,_ before they are off, whirling once more through the vast chasms of space and time. The opening notes of a hymn chase after them, and John can hear the words ringing in his ears.

_I once was lost, but now I'm found. Was blind, but now I see._

When their feet touch softly down, it is in a place John knows to be home.


	3. Chapter 3

The flat is dark and quiet. Mid-morning light filters through the dusty windows. Though it's visible beyond the curtains, the traffic is muffled by the thick walls, only a dull thrum. Life outside the walls, the life of the city and its inhabitants, seems unable to make it through into 221b. It is dead silent. A thin layer of dust sits on every surface. No lights, not even the sound of appliances or the livewire hum of electricity. From his place in the frame between the kitchen and living area, the flat seems devoid of any life at all - until something shifts on the couch.

Or rather, someone.

John could not contain the gasp that escapes him if he tried. Sherlock is pressed into the cushions of the couch, utterly still. His unwashed hair sits limply upon his forehead, tangled and longer than John's ever seen it. There are deep, traceable circles under his eyes, made ever more apparent by the paleness of his skin. His body, all awkward bones before, sticks out at sharp angles where he is curled into the leather.

John did not imagine this.

Sherlock, of course, doesn't hear the breath leaving his body. He remains, completely immobile, on the sofa.

John wonders if he's dead.

Then suddenly, his eyes open.

John recalls moments of revelation; the stunning gleam that would set those grey eyes on fire like mercury. Sherlock's realizations, in which his face lit up and you could practically see his mind whirring behind those big silver irises; in which everything came together for him as it always did. This is nothing like that. His eyes open sluggishly, and when they do, they lack any luster at all. Tired and tinged red at the edges, they are human and altogether unlike the otherworldly, ethereal gaze John's used to. When Sherlock moves to sit up, it is the same - none of his purpose, none of his confidence. Just moving because he must; because it is the only thing he can do.

This is not the Sherlock Holmes John knows. His face was always carefully schooled, and now, that blankness is the only thing that remains the same. Except this is not the blankness of an unreadable expression, hidden glances, coy masks. This is an emptiness, a weakness, and when Sherlock's eyes lock with his, he realizes that he is staring into a dead man's eyes.

He shudders with pity and fear, wants to say something, anything - but Harry's hand on his wrist reminds him of the situation, and he can only stare back helplessly.

_Was it me? I'm not worth this. God, Sherlock, what have you done to yourself?_

Sherlock's eyes, still staring into the space where John is, or isn't, eventually slide to the fireplace. His feet follow them, almost of their own accord. He seems to be lost, wandering like a child towards the mantel.

But this is where John learns that there is a purpose, and this is what, exactly, Sherlock is doing to himself.

His long, pale fingers shake as they drift along the top of the mantel, sending a cloud of dust motes soaring into the air. They come to a picture frame. It is John and Sherlock, caught in a moment of laughter. He remembers that day well - some hospital party out in the park that he'd invited Sherlock along to, not thinking that he'd actually go. He had tagged along, though, and even proven himself a worthy opponent in hide-and-seek, despite his initial objections that it was "a childish game that no adult would be caught dead playing." He'd surprised John from his place in a tree, and after the initial shock - scared him to death, Sherlock's head popping out of the leaves like that - they'd spent fifteen minutes giggling about it like schoolboys. Sarah had handed him the Polaroid later, a knowing smile playing on her lips, and John had rolled his eyes and flushed but pocketed it fondly nonetheless.

Sherlock does not smile now. His hands push the portrait face down. "Wouldn't want you to see," he murmurs.

His hands move along the brick face, stopping on one brick at the far left. He grasps it, and it slide out from the wall. Sherlock tosses it aside carelessly, other hand already reaching inside. It emerges with a small silver box.

Looking around as if he expects someone to come walking in at any moment, Sherlock is greeted only by the silence and darkness. He continues to listen, but his eyes are once again drawn back to the object in his hands. They are trembling with anticipation as he lifts one and pries off the lid.

John sucks in a breath, as if drawing up his previous gasp.

Inside on a bed of velvet sits a sleek, pointed syringe.

The box falls away, hitting the floor with a sharp, metallic clang as Sherlock fills the syringe and sinks into his chair. He screws his eyes shut, inhales deeply, and presses the point to his arm.

John is screaming, shouting obscenities and pleading and begging at the sad and broken man before him, fighting madly against Harry's strong grip as she holds him back and takes them away.

His last image as the world dissolves is of Sherlock trembling and pitiful, the shattered cry of a name forming on his cracked lips.


	4. Chapter 4

"Why?" he shouts as they land. John is on his hands and knees, breathing harshly. The surface under his palms is wet asphalt.

Harry is standing, looking down at him, hands stuffed in the pockets of her coat. Her lips purse, and if John were looking he might see sympathy in the lines of her face. "Why what?" she questions softly.

John is struggling not to cry as he sinks back to rest on his legs. His heart still pounds in his ears, as if the sound will be enough to drown out the images of that needle poking through Sherlock's porcelain skin, the grim, tortured satisfaction and shame on his twisted face. John's arm wipes at his nose, his left hand clenching and unclenching on his thigh. "Why… all of it. Why would he go back to that? I thought he'd beat the addiction, I thought… Why would you bring me there? Jesus Christ, Harry… I can't…"

She looks away from him. "Not my rules, Johnny. But there are some things you need to see." Turning back to him, she pulls him up by his arm. His legs are quaking, and he sways uncertainly. She keeps her arm wrapped around his waist for support, but her hands are uncertain, too.

Almost against his will, his head tips into her shoulder. "Did he do it because of - of me?"

He feels her gentle shrug, and sighs deeply. He breathes steadily for a few seconds. Ghost or spirit or not, Harry still smells like Harry, and she is warm and comforting. When they were young, before they had time to grow angry with each other, he remembers many nights spent like this, when dad was gone too long or it was thunderstorming too hard, or that one time when they both caught the chicken pox at the same time. The memories are a balm, and he eventually is able to draw himself up again.

"I have more to show you. It's not going to get easier, but you need to see these things. Are you ready?" Her voice is steady and reassuring, something he never got to see in life. The twinge of that feeling fills him again, but he pushes it away, and instead nods wordlessly, jaw clenching.

She produces an umbrella from within her coat, and they walk together towards the flashing blue and red lights across the square. She doesn't remove her arm. Neither does he.

As they get closer, it's a familiar sight: yellow caution tape is strung haphazardly around an area milling with people in black jackets. Camera lenses flash from the gathered reporters, contrasting with the circling lights on the police cars. There's a body bag, and another body is looming over it, long black coat askew. John's heart lurches as they step unseen into the marked off site, coming to a stop only inches from where Sherlock is kneeling over the corpse.

"Well?" asks Lestrade as he strides into view, crossing his arms.

"30s. Single, there's no mark of a wedding band and the bald patch means there's no one to tell him he needs a new hairdresser." He frowns over the torso. "Though he's obviously stabbed to death - most likely a crime of passion; stabbing is not for the weak or faint-hearted, especially when that person is under five feet."

"Under - how?"

He sighs. "Typical knife-wielding angle compared with the location of the wounds gives you approximately five feet in height. Most men are above this, and you'll find a heel imprint on his left show, so you're looking for a short woman with no romantic connection."

"So, what? Mother? Sister? Great Aunt?"

"It was obviously the mother, just look at -," Sherlock begins with an exasperated sigh, but then he stops short and fixes Lestrade with a penetrating stare. "And you know that."

Lestrade stammers for a moment as Sherlock rises. He advances on the inspector. "Why are you handing me an easy case?" he hisses.

"You know why, Sherlock. You botched the Highland case -"

"Oh, for god's sake, one mistake doesn't -"

"- and the Brennan one, and then there was the godawful mess you made of that one about the novelist…"

Sherlock glares down at him, and for his credit, Lestrade doesn't back down. He does, however, drag Sherlock away from the crowd. John stumbles unsteadily after them - he's still reeling from the thought of Sherlock missing an important detail, let alone mucking up an entire case.

"Maybe you should take some time away from the cases."

"I don't need time," Sherlock replies, and his voice is like ice.

Lestrade sighs. "Look, I'm just trying to get you back on your feet. We need you here, and after John -"

He realizes his mistake, but it's too late. Sherlock, half-listening before at best, becomes completely closed off. His mouth settles into a firm line, and he yanks his arm back from Lestrade.

"I have no need of your pity, Inspector. Go find the mother - unless you're entirely incapable of running an investigation yourself."

He sweeps off, scarf flying behind his hunched shoulders. John hurries to keep up, Harry following closely. As they near the group of reporters, they all begin talking over one another in their effort to catch the now infamous detective.

"Mr. Holmes! Do you have anything to say on the case of Scarlet Hooper?"

"Is your liaison with Scotland Yard really undergoing an investigation? Do you think it will be terminated?"

"Will you comment on the mistaken arrest of Mr. Avery?"

"Has the death of your partner got anything to do with your failure to provide assistance to the police?"

"Mr. Holmes, is it true that you were cited as a reason for John Watson's suicide?"

Sherlock rounds on the reporter that asked the last question. His eyes are wide and terrifying as he sends a fist flying across his face. The journalist falls back into the crowd as people gasp. Someone screams, and others begin converging on Sherlock. Police have to pull him from the throng, blood streaming from his nose and a swell growing on his forehead. They load him into a car, and out of the corner of his eye John can see Lestrade sitting on a door stoop with his head in his hands.

John has been watching helplessly, the frustration of not being able to do anything but sit and watch building and building within him. But when Sherlock's wounded opponent shouts in the direction of the car, it is the last straw.

"Freak!"

John can feel his blood boiling, burning through his veins in his rage. The silhouette of Sherlock through the tinted windows hangs its head, and something snaps. Forgetting that his hands will be utterly useless, he marches towards the crowd, tremors of rage wracking his body. His instincts are screaming that this is wrong, everything about this is so very, very wrong and he cannot stand idly by when these terrible, awful things are happening to anyone, least of all Sherlock.

_I will not let them __call you that. You are brilliant and beautiful and how dare they say anything against you; how can they not see it; how can you not know it._

He is drawing his arms back, to fight, to take revenge, to protect, when he abruptly finds himself on a bridge he remembers all too well.


	5. Chapter 5

"What?" he mumbles, forgetting for a moment, until Harry reappears at his elbow.

"Oh. Right." He sighs in defeat, the fury draining away as resignation takes its place. These things would happen and he would be unable to stop them. He swallows. "Why are we here?"

She lifts a finger, and John follows it to where a man is sitting on the railing over the churning, freezing waters below.

"God. No, god, Harry," he says, and breaks into a run against the viciously whipping wind. He reaches Sherlock, who has not moved in the three seconds it took John to make it to his side. He still does not move when John's hands pass uselessly through him in his vain attempts to pull him back from the rail.

"Sherlock," he moans, terror and defeat coalescing in the pit of his stomach, turning it as cold and choppy as the river.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock says, and John nearly jumps out of his skin in surprise - until he realizes Sherlock is speaking into the empty air of the city.

"For what?" he replies anyway, his face softening as he looks at the detective. "You're not going to do it. No. You're not."

"It's just… been difficult, to do things anymore. Without you. And the world is difficult to handle without you. You made it easy, John," he sighs wistfully. "You made it less… noisy, in my head. And I became used to that feeling, so when you were gone…"

"I'm not gone, I'm here, I'm right here," he whispers, his hands passing frantically through Sherlock's body like smoke.

"It was like an addiction, and the withdrawal has been more painful than I was expecting." His eyes slam shut. "I didn't see this coming. I should have noticed the signs. I should have seen it and done something, not let you suffer alone. I just didn't know how to help you. You were dying, anyone could see that. But I just didn't imagine it would be _you_ to hurt yourself. And I never imagined you'd be the one to hurt me, too."

"I didn't mean to, I swear, I - I wasn't thinking," John cries, eyes growing hot as he watches Sherlock stand unsteadily on the edge.

"I'm sorry I was so awful to be around that you had to… do what you did. But, never fear, I won't make the same mistake twice. The world is better off without me, John. I just wish that. I just. I wish you could have known that you made my world a better place," he says awkwardly, his confession strange to his own ears.

John feels the sobs shake his shoulders; the hot paths of tears that scorch his face. "You made mine better, too. I never wanted to hurt you. I was selfish and hopeless and stupid and please, Sherlock, no, no. None of it was your fault. This world needs you; needs the light in your eyes when you find something out, needs your intelligence and your quirks alike, needs the stupid way in which you never pick up the goddamn milk, needs you, everything about you," he shouts. "And I'm sorry for not seeing that I was needed, too. I'm sorry for everything."

He buries his face in his arms, because he doesn't think he can stomach the sight of Sherlock throwing himself away. He rocks back and forth, mourning for the life he wasted and the consequences he never imagined. Looking back, it seems so foolish, so brashly pessimistic. How could he have not understood it before?

"Please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he murmurs through the tears. "Take it back. I take it all back. It was bad, yeah, but… I'm sorry for not remembering that it gets better. And, and it was already _good_. I had a good life. I was… I was needed. And sometimes that's all you need. To be needed. I'm sorry for not seeing that. Letting the bad stuff get to me. Just… let Sherlock live again. Let him be okay. Please, God, please…"

He has no idea how long he sits on the cold ground, praying, crying, before a voice carries him back to reality.

"John?"

No. It can't. It is…?

John lifts his stained face to see Sherlock standing uncertainly a few feet away.

It is night, it is snowing, and Sherlock is alive.

John leaps to his feet, staggers forward, and stares openly and wondrously into Sherlock's confused face. "Sherlock," he breathes. He cannot quite believe it, but it's true. This is his second chance.

"I deduced where you'd be, it was quite simple, really. I came to see if -" He is cut off by John's entire body slamming forward and crushing him in an embrace, and the pressure of warm lips against his own. He makes a startled noise, but John feels his mouth curve into a smile.

When John pulls away, there's an amused edge to Sherlock's concern. "Are you alright? I know, back at the flat, and the past few months…" he trails off, unsure, undisguised worry creasing between his eyebrows.

John smiles, looks up at the sky. _Thank you. You did it, Harry. You saved me. _He wonders if Harry got this chance, and then decides that no, probably not, and either way, she chose to move on. He wishes, not for the first time, that she were still here - there's so much more he needs to tell her, so much more he has to apologize for, so much more he has to fix. But, looking into Sherlock's questioning face, he supposes everything happens for a reason, and he's thankful she was there to show him the way. They got their second chance, too. He wonders if she's proud of him and the choice he made. He hopes that even after everything, she still is.

His hand finds that of Sherlock, who flushes through a dazzling array of surprise, embarrassment, and pleasure. "I will be," John says, and leans up for another kiss.

For the first time, he believes it.

"What happened to you?" Sherlock asks, bewildered but clearly pleased.

John's face grows serious. "I realized some things. That there are good and bad times, but all in all, we have a good life, Sherlock. A very good one. And I at least have you to thank for that. Don't you… don't ever doubt that you are the best thing to happen to me. You, you mental, strange, brilliant, fascinating man. I don't ever want to be in a world without you in it. You make my world a better place," he says simply, almost shyly, but the words are true and right.

This time, it is Sherlock who tilts his head up and kisses him.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

"Happy Christmas, John."

And it was a happy Christmas indeed.


End file.
